A Tale of New Bilgewater
by Ethereal311
Summary: An Established Piltover Writer writes a dramatic tale of his adventure to Bilgewater, which will eventually include Miss Fortune otherwise is entirely OC. A short, multi-chapter writing experiment attempting to tap into the 19th century writing vibes of the new official Piltover lore (don't worry I'm salty too) and speculative world building.
1. 1 - A Disclamation of Drama

A Disclaimer by order of:

The Piltover Ministry of Media Propagation

On this text so as to Declare:

The following work is officially recognized as pure Fantasy. Under no circumstance must these sentences and paragraphs be considered Factual in any capacity.

Against the Original Claimant:

The Governing Body of the New Bilgewater Monarchy

* * *

To the inquisitive reader of my auteurism, you might know that I, Siegfried Clemuon, never admired writings of the popular or political. However, with the months old event of the death of the Captain called 'Gangplank' and the more recent Trifarix coup d'etat in Noxus, I for one feel that the world is for sure a changing place and it is time that I should at least reconsider my own attitude towards the matter. The taste for literature on Noxus outside the scholarly or militarily is still undeniably frowned upon, even by myself for that matter, but there are none who may deny the popularity of the Pirate. A stroll through Printer's Lane is ever enough to show how massive this phenomena truly is, now seeking to rival even the tales of Dashing Demacians carrying Vastayan Princesses far away from the corruptive tentacles of Noxus (something my huntsmen correspondents have long complained about as the true situation is far more complex). Following several reads of the most popular material on offer, a madness arose in my mind, commanding me to provide a far more fantastical account of Bilgewater than whatever those pulps could imagine.

My more frequent readers know that I dabble more in what many have called 'womanly writings', although a more apt description is writings with a focus on the nuances of both the romantic and domestic among the fantastical elements of our age. I do not seek the simple pleasure of a maiden following her first admiration, rather the long winding test of determination that we know as love.

What I fear the following to be, however, is an adventure novel featuring myself as its protagonist. To the readers who have expected so much from my research break, I apologize, for as much as I tried to conjure a creative spark, the attitudes of the populace deprived me of my original intention for their utter disregard for the literary is as legendary as their talents for thievery and butchery, both of which I assure you are not to be trifled with (the latter referring to those creatures of the depths, though ample stories of horror abound around the carcasses of such behemoths).

My lengthy essay here on my previous works is something I deem necessary, as I fear that with the pertinent contents of this piece to Bilgewater's political climate, this piece may become my bestseller, far oustripping my debut work "Baron's Wishes", and yet is such a disparate tone from every other works that I do not consider this piece as a work of my own, yet I add this as a wish to add an air of depth and as having lived through these pages myself. I assume that if this piece be considered "Pure Fiction" by the Ministry of Media Propagation then you have already read and are ready to consider what follows as purely a dramatic pulp retelling of my excursion to the Isles of Bilgewater.

* * *

Signed:  
Monsieur Siegfried dans le Famille de Clemuons


	2. Chapter 2 - Not even the Drunkard

"One can smell Bilgewater sooner than one sees it." The Captain told me. He never said what smell though. One of decay, yes, but the decay of the Sea Gods that man had defied was not one mere brochures could summarize in the phrase "ominous mucoid stench".  
I recognized a different smell though, one that I woke up to in fear of my booked transport having been set ablaze by pirates. I surfaced from my cabin to a wide open calm sea, save dark, smog-ridden rain clouds and the speckled juttings of islands on the horizon.  
"Welcome to New Bilgewater, Mister Ardjen." Captain Eurik jeered as he passed me on his way up to the helm.

The ship didn't dock at Bilgewater Harbor, rather a small island an afternoons sail away by the name of Ingram's Landing. Here I definitely caught wind of that mucoid stench, but the other smell still dominated me once I moved a few streets away from the local Slaughterdocks. The question of not docking in Bilgewater plagued me even more as every local simply chuckled at me, disparagingly dismissing me as "landlubber" before I finally got an answer out of a drunkard.  
"It's being burnt down. All of it!" He grogged as I passed a Serpent over to the Barkeep.  
"Huh, ain't seen a Serpent in a while." The Barkeep opened his mouth for the first time in what might've been two hours of me poking around the inn.  
"Aye, that's 'cause it be the coin of Gangplank! The Queen and that Ill-ow-who'sit want rid everything he's ever laid his hands on!"  
"Kem, conspiracies don't suit you." The Barkeep said dismissively.  
"So have they minted new ones yet?" I asked. Frankly I didn't expect these two commons to know what minting was, so I expanded. "Might there be new coins around here?"  
"Hmm…. 'side the new Noxian Triad, I ain't seen any me'self." The Barkeep replied after a decent length of thought.  
"Pff… dumb wenches just wanted us to bow to them. They wanted revenge and they got it. Now they got every Isle on the horizon and just shoo them along to figure everything out for 'emselves. Like dumping chum in the water and not 'specting razorsharks." Kem expressed through deep gulps of ale.  
"So, if we might return to the subject, what is it like in Bilgewater Harbor?"  
Every conversation fell silent. I could only respond with respectful silence.  
"Death," Kem replied, his groggy voice instantly turning sober and somber. "There's only death there now. No exceptions."  
"You're not getting a better answer than that, lad. Better keep it at that."  
My silence continued, only broken by the clacking of Serpents on lacquered wood for their time.


	3. Chapter 3 - A Moonlit Encounter

I would have devoured the local newspapers with surprising zeal, desperately searching for those answers and questions that were often far too available on Opfum Lane, but there were none. The populace, after several more attempts at taverns and inns, did not want to talk about it.

I turned in my bed once again. It was of a strange material, perhaps some sort of sea plant fiber, but it was of appropriate comfort for the price of my booking. My mind was ruining my time, and for that I required relief of sorts.

I, as much as was not recommended by every brochure and sane man, required a walk.

Curse the consequences.

Bilgewater architecture is as literal to material plagiarism as one can get, taking shipwrecks from the shoreline and repurposing them to the new owners will as a house crab would an empty mollusc shell. The Inqura current is especially notorious, as wrecked hulls caught in the thousand mile Courier Weed have their crews picked at by all manner of creatures through the long trek to the Bilgean Isles, leaving them clean of all perishables provided that one patches a few breaches here and there.

Once one gets further inland, as was my booked abode, the shift in architecture can be rather startling. While a prefabricated overturn might do the resourceful a favor, they remain cumbersome and exhausting to carry. On any incline beyond an acute angle such plagiarism is considered far less practical.

Ingram's locale was originally a Conqyx settlement, albeit a full two centuries ago when pirate lords were relegated to more open waters instead of owning a miniature country. The Conqyx white mortar produced a calming marine hue amid the full moon while the almost scorching red of the terracotta roof tiles in the day melded black into the shadows of the manors. For a moment I almost forgot it was an afternoons sail from the Island of Pirates, but once the architecture took a turn for the pragmatic, I knew I should at least shift my course.

Then I heard a moan.

My shadow had, inadvertently, passed down several yards down a downward stepped alley, my 'head' now resting on a doubled-over man by some absurd circumstance of moonlight. Whatever was to transpire, to engage with the populace outside my terms was one of impending danger.

"'Oi! Mind helping a lad out?" He coughed.

I wished for his lack conscience in this single moment, such is the curse that permeates every rank of the Piltover Bourgeois is that undesirable awkwardness in denying charity of any sort. Such as it is, I descended the stairs to the man's location, my shadow miniscule before his broad shoulders as I helped him to his feet.

In an instant I knew this man was no local. The coal black hair and toned beige skin denoted him a Noxian by birth, possibly even hailing from an Officer's lineage. As my lanky writer's body helped him to his gigantic feet, I felt an animalistic fear refluxing inside me, ready to flee the instant he might recognize me as a Piltie. I gulped down the fear, but that taste is something I will never forget.

"My thanksch," he churned, coughing up a wad of ale-ladden spittle, none of which thankfully splattered on me. "Got ambush'd by a bunch'a kids who liked an idea of slamming a rotten plank to my balls."

 _==Note of the Author: There is no man alive who would not grimace at this, that much I know, but such are the children of Bilgewater, coming from second-hand experience.==_

I was frankly something of a dead weight when his strength finally began returning to him. Propping him against the closest ship hull, the dreaded moment came when he reignited his dropped lantern.

"You ain't from around here," he stated "Piltover I assume?"

"What another place would spawn bodies like mine?" I joked.

He was incredibly puzzled at this. I shouldn't bother with joking around, no one ever gets me anyway.

"Yes, Piltover," I sighed.

"Huh, why're you here?" he asked as if he knew nothing more than a smidgeon of geopolitics.

"I am a 'tourist' of sorts."

"PFFFGHHGHAHAHAHA! Why'd anyone want to be a tourist in these times?"

"I do it for research and leisure, of a sort."

"Pleasure, eh? Why didn't you just say so! I'm a bouncer at Swallow's Inn, so let me give you a round on the house!"

I believe he misheard and conflated the two terms together.


End file.
